Note: Hours after this story going live on our website, the Supreme Court of India granted a stay to Sheroes against the eviction order and directed the Allahabad High Court to hear and dispose the matter within this period. Team Sheroes has expressed happiness at the apex court order.]]>
Year: 2018
It Never Rains, It Pours: Flood Survivor
I usually love the rains. Sipping coffee when it is raining is very relaxing. But after this (2018) monsoon, things will never be the same again. It started in May with what seemed like a cloud-burst. Then, there were incessant bouts of downpours. Initially, the problems were limited to waterlogging, potholes etc. The first reports floods came in Kuttanad (Alleppey).
By August 15, when the nation celebrated Independence Day, Kerala began to witness the wrath of nature. Reports said the dams across Kerala, mainly Idukki dam on the Periyar and Shabarigiri on the Pamba, were overflowing. Yet, nobody estimated the magnitude of the calamity in store. On August 17, many districts sounded a red alert. I live in Haripad, Alappuzha, which flooded because of improper maintenance of dams in the nearby districts.
We heard that several leaders blamed the rising waters to beef-eating sinners in Kerala. I believe we reap what we sow. It was just a natural process after ecological rampage. I remembered the Bible quote: Let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall, no one is exempted from actions of nature. My phone had not stopped buzzing all this while.
My aunt called from the US kept advising me to “take your necessary certificates, get off and reach some safe zone”. We started rearranging and shifting our items, even packed our trolley and backpacks with the essentials in a bid to move out fast since the water level was increasing in the nearby river. That night we slept very late. At 6 am, we woke up to find the courtyard in ankle-deep water. The passersby, familiar faces, were all hurrying to safe camps.
My friends and neighbours were running away from their homes near the river, leaving behind a life’s worth of savings and memories. When I asked them where they were headed, they said they didn’t know. “Everything is gone! We are running to save our lives at least”. By the next day, I realised that things were getting worse. There were rumours that the water may rise to 3 metres.
I am 5 feet 3 inch and don’t know how to swim. Can you imagine how frightened I was! I called for information about relief camp in the vicinity and whether we could move there. One was being run by an uncle of mine from his new house which was multistoried. That evening when water rose in our compound steadily, we made our decision to leave.
I bundled some clothing, my documents wrapped in plastic covers and some food item and left for my uncle’s place. Our trip there was a long way through knee-deep pools of water. Thankfully, the relief centre was equipped with landlines and a generator, which helped us charge our phones and stay in touch with friends and family. We also managed to get groceries from the nearby town for the next few days via service trucks and rafts.
Day passed, with no relief from pouring water, nights were moonless and the birds silent. Three days later, the sun broke and I heard an ambulance. There were boats and rafts all around our building, and some tractors loaded with people. It looked as if entire town was moving past. From the balcony of our building, I saw a bridge nearby and army men rafting in. There were monstrous sounds of helicopters over us too. The water on the ground was at stomach-level and people of all age were climbing up the ladder handed out by the rescue operators.
Even at such moments, people joked about ‘how a beastly vehicle has turned out to be a saviour’. We were taken to a proper relief camp where we felt safer and calmer. I met many friends who had run away from the flood. There was mobile connectivity and even food was available, though overpriced; imagine paying Rs 80 for a bun! Over the next few days, radio was our only way for information and entertainment.
And we realised how informative its programmes were. I volunteered to visit other camps with supply of food and water. I found young and eager volunteers performing services to assist officials and in some cases even in the absence of any official. Some heroes don’t wear capes. With water levels residing, we decided to return to our house. The route was dotted with abandoned houses, covered with grime, broken walls and damaged vehicles.
Some people were busy cleaning and rearranging their lives. We found the floor covered with slime and mud. My parents, my sister and I got down to the job of cleaning, an effort that took us three days, and yet the stains on the walls and floor refused to go. We had lost our washing machine, motor pump and many other gadgets to the flood, and battled poisonous snakes that had nestled into the compound.
But I also picked up valuable lessons for life. We heard about marriages, festivals and other celebratory functions were either postponed or observed humbly in relief camps. I know some people donated their dowry money to the disaster relief fund. Onam came, and people celebrated its true spirit – “humanity”, and “Maveli naadu vaanedum kaalem manusherellam onnupolae”, the concept of Ram Rajya advocated by Mahatma Gandhi. We were helped by strangers, whose names we forgot to ask, whose castes or faiths we never bothered to know; there was unity without any barrier.
Under the Spell of Amir Khusrau
Ten years ago, Pradeep Sharma Khusrau decided to dedicate his life to spreading the work of Khusrau throughout the world, and in the process, he acquired a large, enviable collection of books, music, postal stamps, records, audio and video cassettes, CDs and DVDs on the poet saint. Sharma has even guided students to complete their thesis on Khusrau. His story in his own words:
The biggest feat a human can achieve is to find the purpose of his or her life. Until then, we are just wandering souls, in search of our calling. But, I have found mine. Thank God, for the night a decade ago, when I happened to listen to a rare gramophone record on the writings of the legendary saint, poet and musician of the 13th century – Amir Khusrau.
The record was titled ‘The Multi-faceted Genius of Amir Khusrau Dehalvi’. I was so spellbound by the poetry that I kept playing the record over and over again, all night long. His poetry was crafted to fit all forms of Hindustani music – classical, semi-classical and folk. The record also had riddles called, keh (sayings) mukarnis (denial) which were specifically written for adolescent girls and children. The writing style, the selection of words, left me sleepless. Next morning, I rushed to the market to look for more literature on Amir Khusrau.
I was surprised to find the sheer dearth of books on Amir Khusrau and his works in book shops and universities. So, I decided to delve deeper. During my quest, I met Mohammed Yunus Salim – the former Governor of Bihar. He is the founder member of Aiwan-e-Ghalib Society and All India Khusrau Society. He had a few books on Amir Khusrau and he presented three of them to me. One of them was titled, ‘Amir Khusrau Dehlvi’ (edited by Dr Zoe Ansari).
It is touted to be the world’s most comprehensive encyclopaedia on Amir Khusrau. It is a compilation of national and international writings on Khusrau and was published in 1975. After reading that book, I realised that multi-faceted is an understatement to define Khusrau’s personality. I was amazed to know that he was not just a poet and a Sufi saint, he was an astrologer, a linguist, a mathematician, a historian, a musician, a warrior, a philosopher, a scholar, and an instrumentalist.
He taught in the most prestigious universities of world and his works transcend different subjects. He is regarded as a legend in Central Asia (where his roots are). The more I read about Khusrau, the more attracted I was towards him. Disappointingly, much of his work in India is now lost. What remains is largely in the Persian language.
It was shocking to find such neglect of one of the greatest poets India ever had. None of his original works have been translated and published. There are commentaries on his work, but they have been made in a scattered manner. I decided to dedicate my life in preserving and spreading the work of Khusrau. I took a vow to get his Persian writings translated in Hindi, English and Urdu, so that Khusrau can reach out to as many people as possible.
The challenge was to find Persian language experts, who could take up this project, with very less remuneration. I did not belong to a very affluent family and could barely make living with my career as a journalist and cartoonist. Still, I managed to get 5,000 pages translated from Persian to Hindi and English.
And got two books published —Qiran-us-Sadain (Conjunction of two lucky planets) and Matla-Ul-Anwar (Dawn of Lights). Four more translations are ready to be published. I have written three books, ‘Amir Khusrau Ek Bahuaayami Vyaktitv’, ‘Hazrat Amir Khusrau Ka Atal Bharat Prem’ and ‘Amir Khusrau Dehlavi’. I have written the first e- book on Amir Khusrau in Hindi for Ministry of Culture.
Now, I run the Amir Khusrau Academy in Delhi and have 35 more books in the pipeline. Though, I haven’t done a PhD on Amir Khusrau, many students have written their thesis on him under my guidance. I keep in touch with authors and publishers from all over the world to collect Amir Khusrau’s as many works as possible. In the last 10 years, I managed to collect 200 rare audio and video recordings of Amir Khusrau’s music from all over the world.
I have 2,500 books and manuscripts of and on Amir Khusrau in various languages; 100 gramophone records; and 200 rare paintings, illustrations, postal stamps etc. I participated in various projects on Amir Khusrau with organisations such as ICCR, IGNCA, UNESCO, Aga Khan Foundation, INTACH, Sangeet Natak Academy, Urdu Academy etc. I have sent copies of Khusrau’s Persian works collected from across the world to various scholars in India, to see if they are willing to translate any of his works voluntarily.
To my delight, a few of them have shown interest and have started the translation. My dream project is to re-write the history of Indian literature in the context of Amir Khusrau. It is challenging, but it’s worth it. Khusaru is a one of the greatest writers and poets of the world, but his work ought to reach the common masses.
His teachings on Hindu-Muslim harmony and communal integrity are especially relevant now. Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia found his greatest disciple in Amir Khusrau and I aim to exit this world as Khusrau’s biggest follower, admirer and messenger.
Police Encounter II – ‘Are Cops Above Law?'
Chirchita village in Baghpat, Uttar Pradesh, have decided to boycott the next elections. Reason: they want justice for Karamvir Singh’s family who lost their son Sumit to a ‘police encounter’ in Noida. The 22-year-old youth was mistaken by a police party for a gangster going by the same name, tortured and then allegedly silenced. The family approached the National Human Rights Commission and have dragged UP police to court for a ‘state-sponsored murder’. Karamvir recounts the events that led to an upheaval in his village: My son, Sumit was a simple 22-year-old boy. He did not have too many big dreams. While many youngsters from our village joined the armed forces, Sumit just wanted to stay back and work on the farm. On September 30, 2017, I sent Sumit to the nearby market to buy pesticides.
That was the last time we saw him alive. He came back home, lifeless, wrapped in a shroud. His body punctured with bullets. Sumit was abducted from a tea-stall in the local market. Locals, who were present in the market that evening told us that a white SUV stopped there and five strongly-built men walked out. They approached Sumit, asked his name, and pulled him inside the car. The wait seemed endless. There was no news for the next few days.
Then on October 2, we were told to give Rs 3.5 Lakh to the Noida police for a ‘challan’. And then they would let him go. However, the police refused to let him go. We heard rumours that Sumit was soon to be killed in an encounter. Shocked and scared we reached out for every possible person/ organization for help –the UP DIG, National Human Rights Commission and the chief minister’s office -but to no avail.
On the night of October 3, I lost my son to a fake encounter. The concocted story seemed straight from a badly-made Bollywood thriller. Sumit, along with three others, ‘robbed a bank’ and was trying to escape in a car when the encounter took place. While the others easily managed to escape the wrath of the very efficient UP police, Sumit was killed in an exchange of fire.
The police claimed to have found some weapons, but in their account, there is no mention of the cash that my son and his ‘gang’ had looted. There are several burning questions demand answers. My son had never ventured out of the village, yet the UP Police claim that he had 12 criminal cases against him in Noida! Eyewitnesses, who saw Sumit being forced into the car, came running to us when they read about the ‘encounter’ and saw Sumit’s photo in the newspaper.
The UP police will never admit this, but they mistook my son for someone else. There is another youth of the same name, in his mid-thirties who has many cases against his name and is absconding since 2011. My son lost his life because the police thought he was a dreaded gangster of the same name. Any admission to this huge faux pas will leave the police red-faced. It has almost been a year since Sumit’s state-sponsored murder.
Life at home has changed. A dull silence prevails. The air is filled with paranoia. We do not let our younger son Praveen venture out after sunset. There have been two Maha panchayats in our village with senior political leaders in attendance. Even the late BJP MP Hukum Singh attended one of them and with his help, we approached the National Human Rights Commission. After an inquiry, the NHRC has issued a notice to the UP government and police.
The hearing of our case at the High Court will be coming up soon. Another maha-panchayat is scheduled to be held in October. We have full faith in the judiciary and our well-wishers, who have been a pillar of support. We keep getting calls from unknown numbers and offered an obscene amount of money for settling the case. But we are adamant.
We want justice for our son. We will continue to demand justice from the Chief Minister and the Prime Minister, or else, we will boycott the upcoming 2019 Lok Sabha polls. A khaki uniform doesn’t absolve the police of their crimes.
Cop On Encounter: ‘There’s No Time… You Kill Or Get Killed’
A UP Police officer, who chased and gunned down a group of notorious gangsters in western UP, later faced accusations of a fake encounter. Truth prevailed, he told LokMarg, as the enquiry cleared him all charges. The officer recounts the hazards of carrying out one’s duty in khaki.
That night in October 2009: Far from the bustling city, we were on the trail of a black Mahindra Scorpio, that was speeding on the Noida-Greater Noida expressway. A notorious western UP Gangster was going to Bulandshehr, my informer had tipped me off some time back.
The Black Scorpio in front of us, was his ride for the night. We had waited patiently outside near the Mahamaya flyover in Noida for over 5 hours and followed it for eight kilometers.
Finally, we managed to intercept the vehicle. We came to sudden halt. Before, we could ask them to come out, the men inside the car opened fire at us. We ducked in defense. At the speed of lightening, our fearless driver rammed our car into theirs from the side. He pushed their SUV towards carriageway, leaving no option for them to move.
Four armed assailants stepped out of the car and swiftly ran towards the fields near the expressway, while shooting at us. We had expected lesser people and country-made guns. But the manner in which they kept spraying bullets at us, we realized their weapons were rather sophisticated.
We were forced to fire in retaliation and ran after them towards the fields. I felt numb. All I could hear was the loud thumping of my heart. They might easily hide in the dense forest, we feared. This was the best opportunity for us to catch them and the darkness and the wilderness weren’t of much help.
After running for a while, I found myself staring at a seven-foot deep pit. One of the many pits that you come across at the Yamuna ravines. And right across the pit were two of the armed gangsters.
I had to act fast. Before they could fire, I shot at them, killing both of them. Another man, popped out from his hideout and started running. He too was gunned down by one of our men. The fourth man managed to escape.
We recovered sophisticated weapons from them which they had bought for carrying out kidnapping and dacoity like cases. The media was quick to reach the spot and started their live coverage. The next 24 hours, went by like a dream. My team and I were projected as national heroes. But soon, a media trial started, stripping us of all the glory.
‘Why didn’t Noida’s Dabangg police officer shoot them on their legs?’ a news anchor shouted at his top of voice. I wish I had! Back home, in the comfort of my living room, I replayed the incident over and over again in my head. Was it possible to catch them alive? I wondered. Every time the answer I got was a ‘no’.
For us it was either kill or get killed. The topmost officer of the district summoned me the next day and told me there will be an inquiry into the incident. He had asked me to stay prepared for media trial and the court proceedings.
As I was taking my leave from the meeting, he said a few words of encouragement that have kept my spirits high till this date. He said my team and I were very brave, and that the incident will act as a deterrent for highway crimes. An inquiry was conducted in the case.
It kept me on my toes for some time, since I had to travel to Lucknow and Allahabad. Finally, the court decided the case in our favor. I served Noida for another nine months and was transferred to other districts of Uttar Pradesh. Since this incident, there have been 11 more shoot outs, but this particular case is known as my ‘claim to fame’.
(The officer, currently a Deputy SP, requested not to disclose his identity)
‘I Couldn’t Look Into The Mirror For Four Months’
In November 2005, Mohini, 23, looked forward to join work with a private firm and contribute to her family income. However, a bitter man who couldn’t take no to his proposal, poured a jugful of acid on her dreams, literally. After chemical burns treatment, Mohini battled mental trauma and stigma. But, she decided to face the world as a survivor, not victim. Her story
It was an early morning in November, 2005. The haze of Diwali had not subsided. The air was still pregnant with the smell of burnt crackers. Accompanied by my father, I hailed an auto-rickshaw to reach Delhi Inter State Bus Terminus. I was scheduled to board a bus to Jaipur and join work the next day. As we drove out, I saw my neighbour standing at the end of the lane. I tried not to look at him.
This man and I had a history of sorts. Not long ago, he had promised to get me a job and had taken away my original certificates. But it was just a ploy for him to get close to me. He refused to return my certificates, until I accept his marriage proposal. He professed his ‘undying love’ several times and wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Harassed and beleaguered, I filed a police complaint against him to retrieve my document.
On that morning, I chose to look the other way as our auto neared him. The next minute, I could only see fumes around me. Those fumes were emanating from my body. I felt something burning and melting away; it was my skin!
I screamed in pain. I couldn’t move, I lay there writhing in agony. A huge crowd gathered by then. A woman came running with a bed-sheet to cover me, my clothes had burnt off. We were rushed to the hospital. I was to find out later that my stalker had splashed a jug-full of acid on our auto-rickshaw and fled the spot. My father and the auto-driver suffered burns as well.
Chemical burns treatment is lengthy and expensive. Though I was getting treated at Lok Narayan Jai Prakash Hospital, a government facility, I had to purchase most of the costly ointments and medicines from private shops.My father too could not join work for six months due to his injuries.Our resources dried up.We had to borrow money from friends and relatives.
Even after I was discharged from the hospital, the mental trauma remained. I avoided people, even those who came to enquire about my health. For about four months, I dared not go near a mirror. I was too scared to look at myself in the mirror. One day, I mustered courage to look at my new face. The horror of seeing my disfigured face for the first time is something I will never recover from. A stranger with a burnt face stared back at me in the mirror.
I would be lying if I said that I never thought of ending my life. I had no one but my parents to support me.Friends faded away, relatives moved on. Worse, many of the people passed judgements like if I had married the man, I would not have ended up in this state. All my fault.
For two years, I went into a self-imposed exile. I refused to interact with anyone. Then one day, my mother posed me a question: ‘Who will take care of you after we are gone?’ That question brought me out of my denial. It was time I took control of my life and faced my fears.
The next day, I stepped out and went to the local market. I had prepared myself to accept all possible reactions – pity, fright, cringing, stares and looking away. I was ready to face the world. Next, I began applying for jobs and in 2009, landed myself a job as a tele-caller with a telecom company. Initially, I would get nervous at work, even dial wrong numbers. It was through one such wrong numbers that I met Gaurav, who would be my husband.
For a long time that we spoke to each other I did not tell him about my condition and the incident that had led to it. After our friendship reached a certain level of trust, I told him about myself. Our bond grew stronger. Then one day, he proposed marriage.
We got married in 2014, nine years after the horrible incident. My husband changed the perception I was holding towards men. He gave me space to grow and made me regain my confidence.
After marriage I left my job as a tele-caller. Meanwhile, I had applied for compensation at the legal aid department in Delhi Commission for Women. However, my application was rejected on the grounds that the Supreme Court had allowed compensation for acid attack survivor cases post-2011 only.
I went to DCW chairperson as a complainant and I came back home with a new hope. The commission had opened employment opportunities for the acid attack survivors. I applied for one of the openings. DCW chief Swati Maliwal played a huge role in boosting my morale. After a series of interviews, I bagged the job at the help desk.
I love my job. I am the first point of contact for distressed women in DCW. I can connect with the complainants and they too confide in me. Their reaction and praises give me a sense of purpose in life. I also have another purpose in my life, raising my two-year-old son as a man who respects women.
Meerut Girls Troupe Tells Women To Get Up, Stand Up…
Dr Neera Tomar, principal of Malhu Singh Arya Kanya Inter College in Meerut, Uttar Pradesh, speaks about the #letmespeak squad which organises street plays that challenge the patriarchal mindset and urge women to speak up for their rights. The troupe also has a ‘thali wing’ which gathers to beat metal plates in front of repeat offenders. Dr Tomar explains the initiative:
In March this year (2018), the national conscience was shaken by two gruesome rapes incidents, one in Kathua, Jammu & Kashmir and another in Unnao, Uttar Pradesh. The girls in our school were disturbed by these incidents. Many of them spoke to me about it. The universal feeling was: ‘what do we do about it? We cannot remain silent. We have to speak up!’ And thus, was born our #letmespeak campaign.
A band of girl students and teachers was formed. Their job over the next few weeks was to reach out to the far end of the society and sensitise people about women’s rights and the need for their empowerment. We realised the best and the most effective way of reaching out to our target audience effectively was to stage a Nukkad Natak (street play).
We all got busy. While teachers and seniors girls prepared scripts for our plays, the male staff in the college identified venues suitable for street theatre. Within a few days, our script was ready. The theme was simple: do not avoid eve-teasers on the road, confront them. Eve teasing is the most common of nuisance faced by women in our society, so that was our beginning point.
Our first play was about a group of schoolgirls who were being harassed by eve teasers. The victims avoided the culprits at first. But then, after watching a scene from Aamir Khan’s film Dangal, they decided to raise their voice and ensured that the crooks went behind the bars. The play was an instant hit because it presented what was in front of us; both the problem and the remedy.
Encouraged, we took our play to venues farther from the city. Our initiative was getting noticed and we got positive coverage in the local media too. As a result, girls’ institutions in neighbouring districts such as Hapur, Baghpat, Muzaffarnagar also started approaching us and offered to join the #letmespeak campaign. We were happy to train them about the script, character sketches, messages and target audience.
A few NGOs also come forward to offer their assistance in identifying venues and arranging for the transportation of the squad. We have also been receiving requests to take the campaign online. Social media has taken activism to a new level and we must cash in on the opportunity it presents. We are in the process of making our presence felt online.
A new addition to our armoury is adding a `Thali Gang’. The idea is to shame the perpetrators. On several occasions, the perpetrators are let scot-free by the police. At other times, they are out on bail and sometimes they go absconding. We have decided to gather outside the house of the accused and bang thalis (metal plates) to let the world know about the crime he has committed. Whatever we do remains within our legal rights to protests and spread awareness.
The reporting of crimes against women, and subsequent media coverage, has risen in the region due to our efforts, but to truly mitigate these crimes, the mindset needs to be changed. It should be a collective responsibility of our society to stand up against such incidents. We hope our initiative is able to sensitise people to speak up.
'It's Tough To Be a Kashmiri Cop's Wife'
Arifa Tausif tells her countrymen how she and other wives of J&K policemen keep lying to their children that dad is coming this Saturday; dad is attending the parent-teacher meet this time; we’re going on a picnic this weekend.
Read her heart-wrenching account here:
For the wives of policemen, the adolescent fancy of ‘being together’ through thick and thin turns out to be a distant dream. We halt for lunch. We keep waiting to dine together. We keep planning to attend family functions or funerals God forbid! together. We keep scheduling an outing. But that hardly ever happens. It’s not about solo parenting only.
We’re the biggest liars! We keep lying to our children that ‘dad is coming this Saturday’. We lie that dad is attending the parent-teacher meet this time. We lie that we’re going on a picnic this weekend. We keep lying that dad is going to join us this Eid, or that marriage. We keep lying to their old ailing parents that he is expected this or that day. We lie to our own selves. We wait and wait, and only wait. Let it be today, tomorrow or a day after, but the plan hardly ever subsides.
Even if it does, a police officer only marks his physical appearance at home. Mentally (and telephonically) he is attending to his duties without fail. The risks and dangers are increasing day by day. Every single casualty of a policeman elsewhere makes our life additionally insecure and worrisome.
Plus, the varying political ideology of the society makes it hard to explain to the people that doing a job in the police department never means disloyalty to one’s people. It’s not always a matter of choice. It’s only the state of affairs of our state that veterinarians are now working as DySps, while a degree in physical education makes you an administrator and a degree in politics lands you in business.
And specialisation in business administration makes you a government contractor. But those with expertise, in a layman’s discussion, prove you to be as outlaws. So the stress increases even when you are out of your home, because in case of any unfortunate event (a pellet injury to someone for instance), people do make us somehow feel responsible for the same.
And then, when anything untoward happens to the policemen, there is hardly anyone to even sympathise with us. I pray my children understand all this at the earliest. I wish my state comes out of these dark clouds and we see the dawn of a peaceful and prosperous Kashmir. The article first appeared on a local news website in Kashmir (PTI)
'My Father's Olympic Dreams Are Now Mine'
Boxer Gaurav Bidhuri, bronze medalist at the World Boxing Championship, took 14 long years of struggle to fill into his father’s gloves and fulfill his dream. Rigorous training, painful injuries and constant criticism in the media… all played a part in charting his path of success. He is now chasing his father’s Olympic ambitions.
My father, Dharmendra Bidhuri, used to be a fiery young man. He would often pick up fights in his college or on the streets. A friend advised him to channelise his anger and fighting talent in a boxing ring. That advice changed his life. It also decided my fate, long before I was born. In two years, my father became the Delhi state champion in senior category and a national medalist. He was unstoppable. He had beaten some of the best boxers in the country. But just when he began to harbour an ambition to win an Olympic medal for India, he was forced by family elders to get married.
Due to financial constraints, my grandfather told him to hang up his gloves. A few years later, he started his own boxing club and trained boxers for free. Maybe his students could fulfill his dream, he thought. When I was 11, I joined my father’s academy. In the beginning, I was just an observer. Later, I would get into bouts with my seniors while my father quietly monitored my moves from a distance. In no time, my father began to believe that I could fulfill his Olympic dreams.
My training became more rigorous. I was studying at Frank Anthony Public School in Delhi and balancing my training in the ring with studies was an uphill task. I would wake up at 5 am for my morning training regime. Before the sweat could dry, I had to rush to school at 8. I came back from school 2:30 and went for tuitions from 3:30 pm to 5 pm. Then, once again, my evening session of training at 6 pm. There was little time for anything else. Some of my relatives questioned my father’s obsession. There is no future in boxing, they would say. My mother too was averse to my boxing. Which mother in the world would like to see her son return home with cuts and bruises every day?
But my father held his faith in me and my training continued along with my studies. I started doing well at the junior level. I became a state champion and then a junior national champion. Next, I went for my first international competition Junior World Boxing Championship, where I lost in the quarterfinals. I played at the youth national and international competitions but still could not secure a medal at the international level.
I participated in my first senior competition in 2011 at the National games and won a bronze medal. I joined the senior national camp and with this, I was probably a step closer to my father’s dream, which by this time had become my dream too. I won my first international medal – a bronze – at the 2012 President’s Cup in Jakarta. This was followed by a long dry spell. I could not win a single medal at any of the international competitions.
I missed the London Olympic qualification which fueled a barrage of doubts in my abilities and left tongues wagging in the media. Some newspaper wrote ‘Gaurav is not an international material’. Sending me to any international competition was just a waste of time and resources. I was demoralised. In 2015, there was a turning point. An Italian boxing team called Italian Thunder selected me for World Series of Boxing. I played in six fights and won four. And then in 2016, I was hired by a team from the USA for World Series of Boxing. I became the only boxer from India who got two successive contracts from foreign teams. I must share my quarterfinals jinx here. I always reached there, then lost.
I lost out at the Olympic and the Asian Olympic qualifiers. The quarterfinals barrier remained my nemesis. But my father never lost hope. In 2017, I was selected in the national team for Asian Championship in 2017. Once again I lost in quarterfinals by a close margin. The loss and a new back injury left me disheartened. Exercises, such as running and jumping were a strict no-no. The hard luck came to an end later that year at a training camp in France. I came to know that I got a wild card entry for the World boxing championship 2017. It was unbelievable. With renewed vigour and confidence, I started training. I had finally got one more shot at fulfilling my father’s dream. From France we went to Czech Republic for Grand Prix and I won a gold. At the World Boxing Championship, I won quite a few bouts with some very distinguished boxers.
When I reached quarterfinals, I was nervous. But this time I had made up my mind. I will not go home without a medal. I broke the quarterfinal barrier. I won! I could not reach the finals. I lost to the USA in a close fight. But I wasn’t disheartened – after all, I had won a medal for India. I am the fourth only Indian to win a medal at the World Boxing Championship. Fourteen years of struggle has not gone waste. My father’s efforts have not gone waste. Struggle and injuries are part of a sportsman’s life and one should never get bogged down. Next Stop is Olympics… I have miles to go.
From A Wheelchair To World Podium
Gaurav Sharma Bio-
Medical expenses left his family in dire straits but he didn’t lose hope. From hospital bed to winning gold for India in 125kg category of 2016 World Powerlifting Championship, Sharma narrates his story: Not every athlete faces the kind of trauma that I did. No, it’s not that I belonged to a poor family. It is about my fate that left me crippled not once but twice. Since childhood, I wanted to be a weightlifter and used to go for training near my house.
I even got selected in the sub-junior Delhi team and was all set to chase my dream when, on May 8, 2001, when I was 13, I fell from the fourth floor of my house in Chandni Chowk while trying to catch a fallen kite. I was rushed to hospital and survived after two days of surgery but my legs were paralysed. I considered myself half-dead. The doctor advised an “automatic” wheelchair.
While my parents couldn’t hold back their tears, I couldn’t believe what tragedy had befallen me. After 15 days in hospital, I was taken home and before that to Chandni Chowk’s Narsingh Temple, which was built by my great-grandparents and where my father was a mahant. I said my silent prayers. In the next six months, I remained strapped to the wheelchair.
From training in the gym I ended up handling the cash counter there. All this while I watched other people prepare for competitions. I could only curse my destiny. But God had other plans for me. One day, an uncle of mine suggested that I try yoga and I agreed. I became a regular at the yoga classes and results were miraculous. After three years of rigorous training, I was back on my feet. And when I got to know that there was a weightlifting competition in Delhi, I decided to participate.
Not all my relatives and friends had faith in my newfound abilities, but my parents stood by me. I started training and went on to win two gold medals and one silver in that event. I became a star overnight and my photo graced newspapers. I was sure that great things were now in store for me and the worst was behind. I couldn’t have been more wrong. On April 6, 2006, I met with another accident, this time the bike I was riding was hit by a car near Gurugram.
Four operations later, with a rod in my left foot, the doctor again advised me to quit chasing my dream to be a professional athlete. The cash crunch caused by the expensive surgeries further drained me. My friends from my weightlifting days expressed their helplessness and when I approached the media to run my story, there was no response.
Seeing me back on the wheelchair, my relatives told my family to keep me home or let me handle the temple for puja paath. But, again, God had other plans. I met Dronacharya awardee Bhupender Dhawan Sir. He told my father, “Your son is so courageous. I will make him a world champion powerlifter.” Everybody doubted his statement. Everybody, except my mother. Soon enough, I started training under Bhupender Sir.
I used to wake up at 4 am and go to the gym – rain or hail I never missed these sessions. Sir told me about an upcoming weightlifting competition in New Zealand. I was a little nervous but prayed to god and said yes. I won gold at the 2007-2008 Commonwealth Championship there and then again at the Asian Championship in Hong Kong in 2008.
The biggest breakthrough came in London in 2016, when I fulfilled my dream of striking Gold in the 125 kg category of the World Powerlifting Championship. This year, I have won two gold medals at the European Championship. My next target is to win Mr Olympia 2018 title. Wish me luck.